The night crossing of a Mediterranean city by car. Its passenger stay there almost invisible, absorbed by the urban view. A voice confirms a lonely night wandering in a city by the sea, an urban journey made to let the time pass away. Who crosses this city isn't only passing through it. He's a local, for a night, before an exile without return.

“With my passing travels, Istanbul remains enigmatic and without secret, far from prevailing visibilities.” (M.J. Mondzain) Everything is mixed, everything is there – not in organised, protected, preserved strata, but in accumulations, wearing, erasing, emptiness and chaos. A wild garden, here; the cycle of life and death; nothing is destroyed, everything is alive, wearing out, continuing. The clock: the Bosphorus. This city is way, the passing of. Here as nowhere else I perceive something of infinity, of the unceasing mixing of times, constant flux, appearing and disappearing; the presence of other times at the edge of the visible...